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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24555391">Kitsune-tsuki</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c'>rei_c</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Teen Wolf (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amoral Stiles Stilinski, Bargaining, Claiming Bites, Dark Stiles Stilinski, Eichen | Echo House, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Institutions, Possession, Sociopath Stiles Stilinski, shifting pronouns</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:00:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,257</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24555391</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"You intrigue me," the nogitsune says, abrupt. "I want to know more of you. You make a good host. I'd like to stay."</p>
<p>Stiles blinks. He's not sure where to start with that. </p>
<p><i>or</i>, </p>
<p>Stiles falls asleep the first night at Eichen House and that changes <i>everything</i>.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Brunski/Stiles Stilinski, Nogitsune &amp; Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski &amp; Malia Tate</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>80</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>507</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Stiles brushes his fingers along the Lichtenberg figure on his neck. The rasp of his nails -- jagged and chipped -- on his skin sends a shiver up his spine, creeping from the small of his back to crawl over his skin and scalp. The feeling makes him shudder.</p>
<p>"What's that?" Oliver asks. "Infection or something?" </p>
<p>"Or something," Stiles says. He slides to the right and curls up on his side to face Oliver; he doesn't rest easy, though, nerves shot and muscles tensing with every noise -- and there are a <i>lot</i> of noises. Everything echoes here, from water running through the pipes to footsteps in the hall. There's a person sobbing somewhere, someone else screaming, and with the way the sound's ricocheting around, he wouldn't be able to tell if they're next door or on the other side of the hospital. "Creepy fucking place," he murmurs. </p>
<p>Oliver laughs a little, moves his fingers. "Creepy's an understatement," Oliver says. "It's why they call it Echo House, y'know. Instead of Eichen? 'Cause everything just kind of -- bounces. Four floors, basement, sub-basement, and it <i>all</i> bounces." </p>
<p>"You don't," Stiles points out. He doesn't know how Oliver isn't shrieking at being restrained but the guy seems -- relaxed, somehow, like being tied down and made to keep still calms him, settles him, knowing that he has no choice but to give in. Stiles has -- he's watched a lot of porn, okay, and some of that has been BDSM-inclined or at least adjacent, so he's had the fleeting thought once or twice of trying out shibari, maybe something a little more full-body and a little less reminds-him-of-his-dad than handcuffs, but seeing Oliver like this, now? No. No way in hell. "Or do you bounce during the day and that's why they lock you down at night?" </p>
<p>"No one bounces in here," Oliver says. "You'll see." </p>
<p>Stiles hums but doesn't say anything in response. There's really nothing <i>to</i> say. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Oliver falls asleep quickly. Stiles wonders, a little, if they medicate everyone here for sleep -- muscle relaxants and painkillers and sedatives. He didn't get anything when he checked in but he also hasn't had his intake meeting with whichever psychiatrist they're assigning him to. He rolls onto his back, tries to ignore the itchy rigidity of the pillow beneath his head, and stares up at the ceiling for who knows how long. He finally lets his eyelids drift down. He's exhausted but Stiles knows that sleep isn't coming for him; if it does, it won't be nearly as effortless as Oliver makes it look. </p>
<p>He catches footsteps outside, keeping a steady pace but then slowing outside of his door -- he thinks. Stiles lifts his head and then props himself up an elbow to meet a pair of eyes looking through the window in the door right at him. He tilts his head, raises one eyebrow in unspoken invitation. </p>
<p>A key jiggles in the lock and the door opens. Oliver mutters something under his breath; Stiles doesn't look over to see if Oliver's awake. It would be unlikely, he thinks. Instead, he takes in the figure standing in the doorway. </p>
<p>The man's all angles and sharp, cutting edges, wiry rather than lean, wearing the clothes of an orderly, Stiles guesses, instead of a janitor. The ring of keys in his hand is thick and there's the outline of something hanging from his belt -- taser or baton, something like that. The look in his eyes is cruel, a hint of something brutal and rapacious lurking in the depths highlighted by the hallway's light and the thin, struggling rays of moonlight coming in through the window. The man's lips are thin and bloodless like he's starving. Stiles respects that. He's hungry, too. He's just better at hiding it.</p>
<p>"Can't sleep?" the man asks. </p>
<p>"Rarely able to without my pillow," Stiles says. "You got anything that could help with that?"</p>
<p>The man grins, shows off his teeth. Stiles has seen a dozen different sets of 'wolf fangs but these teeth in this mouth, they're more suited to drip poison than any others he's faced. "Might," he says, mildly. "What's it worth to you?" and his eyes scan up and down Stiles' body. Stiles plays into it, tilts his head to the side to display the sleek lines of his neck, dips his chin enough to look up through the thick web of his eyelashes, licks his lips to leave them gleaming. The man takes one step closer, now inside the room, as he breathes out, "I can see why you're in here, kid. Trouble with a capital 't,’ huh? What’s your name?"</p>
<p>Stiles calculates the distance between them, spreads his legs a little and watches the man’s eyes drop, just for a split second. "Stiles," he says, adds, "Stilinski. What’s yours?"</p>
<p>"Not sure I should tell the sheriff’s kid," the orderly says, "when he’s asking for unprescribed drugs. What’re you here for, kid, some kind of sting?" </p>
<p>"Nah. No way in hell my dad would trust me with something like that," Stiles says. He rolls his eyes, lies, "We have family in town this weekend; he put me in here 'cause he needed me out of the way. Can't embarrass the grandparents, right?" Stiles lets out a bitter laugh that claws its way past his larynx. "If he can't trust me around family, you think he'd consider letting me do any work for him? Not a chance." </p>
<p>The orderly chuckles. The sound scrapes across Stiles' nerves. "Gonna cause some trouble in here, then?" he asks, one hand going to the taser on his hip. </p>
<p>Stiles shakes his head. "No," he says, winces and bites his bottom lip, amends, "Well, not for you. The docs, maybe some of the others stuck in here? Sure. But I'm smart enough to know that causing someone like you problems is a one-way ticket to hell -- and in this place, that's saying something. I wanna make sure I stay on your good side." </p>
<p>Oliver mutters again; the man just glances Oliver’s way for a moment before dismissing him, setting his sight back on Stiles. "Brunski," he says. Stiles raises an eyebrow and the guy says, "S’my name. Figured you might wanna know it. For the future." There are goosebumps sliding in a wave down Stiles’ arms with the way Brunski’s looking at him, his hair raising and nerves on edge. Stiles resists the urge to flinch. "You want me to -- help you sleep?" </p>
<p>"Yeah," Stiles says, and smiles, shows off his teeth as he adds, "If you can." </p>
<p>He’s almost one hundred percent sure that Brunski’s not going to do anything physical to him right now, not with Oliver in the room and the door open. It’s a calculated risk, sure, but Stiles hasn’t made it this far in life -- hasn’t ended up in fucking <i>Eichen</i> -- by playing it safe. He fights to keep his muscles loose as Brunski approaches him, doesn’t show any of the revulsion he’s feeling, simply looks up when Brunski comes to a stop next to the bed, looks down at him. </p>
<p>Brunski’s eyes go black, pupils dilating wide and ravenous, at the way Stiles bares his neck with the stretch of looking up. He reaches out, strokes a fingernail down Stiles’ throat, then back up, under Stiles’ chin, across Stiles' mouth.</p>
<p>Stiles parts his lips, licks the edge of Brunski's fingernail. It's dirty, tastes of bleach. Acid rises in the back of Stiles' throat but he swallows it down, doesn't let the burn of it cross his face.</p>
<p>Brunski laughs like he's startled. "Jesus, kid," he says. "No wonder your dad thinks you're trouble."</p>
<p>"What can I say," Stiles purrs, shrugs one shoulder. "I’m precocious." </p>
<p>"Sedative," Brunski says, reaching behind him. He brings out a syringe, full and capped, holds it up for Stiles to look at. It’s not labelled. "Keep you out of trouble until someone comes to unlock your roommate over there." </p>
<p>Stiles keeps his eyes locked with Brunski’s as he lies back, hips wriggling as he settles to a comfortable position. Brunski's eyes get drawn to the movement, gaze lingering for a long moment before he looks back at Stiles' face. Stiles lifts his arm, asks, "Gonna stick around to make sure it works?" </p>
<p>Brunski snorts, injecting Stiles. "Rounds," he says. "Might come back and check in on you, make sure it <i>takes</i>." </p>
<p>"Not like I’d stop you," Stiles says. He can feel the wave of medicine hit; his vision goes spotty, briefly, before it starts hazing at the edges. He wonders if Brunski heard ‘not like I could stop you’ or ‘not like I <i>would</i> stop you,’ such different statements with such drastically different implications. </p>
<p>And then he can’t keep his eyelids open anymore. It’s a moment more before he falls asleep, a moment when he feels a thumb push into his mouth. He has just enough energy to suck, lightly, before he’s out. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Stiles opens his eyes in a white room -- <i>the</i> white room, the one he remembers from the ritual. He turns around, rests his eyes on the nemeton's stump. Stiles frowns, steps a little closer and breathes out, "What the fuck," when he sees the Go board and stones waiting for players. </p>
<p>"One game." </p>
<p>Stiles whirls around, sets his eyes on the nogitsune. He drags his eyes down and then back up the nogitsune's body -- or whatever body it's using to present itself. Bandages wrap around its face and neck and hands, hiding every piece of skin except its lips, the discoloured, ragged cloth tucked under a heavy-looking shirt and leather jacket. Stiles takes in boots, thick trousers, the patch on the jacket's right arm, before his eyes settle on silver-glinting teeth. </p>
<p>"Who are you?" he asks. "Or, I guess -- who are you wearing?" </p>
<p>The nogitsune smiles, gestures at the nemeton. "One game, Stiles," it says. "Sit. Play. We'll talk." </p>
<p>Stiles tilts his head. "Do I really have a choice?" he says, rhetorical question more than anything. Stiles moves to the side before turning to walk to the nemeton; he's not about to put the nogitsune at his back, not unprotected and alone. "The fox lichen trapped you enough that you can't use my body," he guesses, as the nogitsune mirrors Stiles, walks across the room, climbs onto the nemeton. "So you decided we'd communicate in my dreams?" </p>
<p>The nogitsune gestures at the Go board, waits for Stiles to place the first stone before answering. "I was bored," it says. "It's not often a human catches me off-guard like that." </p>
<p>"To be fair, I'm not willing to bet on Deaton being human," Stiles says. Maybe it's because this isn't real, maybe it's false confidence inspired by the lichen, but he feels -- safe isn't the right word, not sitting across from a nogitsune in a place where he came close to death, sort of, but safe is the closest he can get right now. "Why are you here?" he asks. "In Beacon Hills, I mean. You're a kitsune; this is not supposed to be your home turf." </p>
<p>The nogitsune grins, and tells him. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>"So what now?" Stiles asks, when the nogitsune finally finishes telling Stiles about Noshiko, about Satomi and Cold Oak and Rhys. There’s a half-played and hard-fought battle of Go separating them but not much else, not when the nogitsune’s just bared its soul the way Stiles never had the choice to. "You want revenge on Noshiko? Fine, I don't care; I don't know her and it's not like you'd be making Kira an orphan. She’ll still have her dad and she's almost an adult anyway. She'll be fine. But after that? Are you gonna let me go peacefully or will you kill me to keep my body?" </p>
<p>The nogitsune laughs. "You'd let me kill her? A celestial kitsune, the mother of your friend -- you'd let me kill her using  your body? Your hands?" </p>
<p>Stiles shrugs one shoulder, places a stone. "I don't know her," he says. "Kira seems sweet but I don't really know her, either. I don't owe that family any loyalty. And besides, doing what Noshiko did was a dick move. She asked you for help and when she didn't like how that help was provided, she freaked out. She wasn't exactly a fresh-born kitsune; she should've known what kind of vengeance she was asking for."</p>
<p>"You intrigue me," the nogitsune says, abrupt. "I want to know more of you. The things you've done, the things you're willing to do, there was no sign of that. I could sense it inside of you: all of the potential with none of the action. And yet, here we are. There's darkness inside of you, moreso than any of your friends have ever guessed at. You make a good host. I'd like to stay."</p>
<p>Stiles blinks. He's not sure where to start with that. "You're already in me," he points out. "I mean, you're possessing me; the only reason we're talking like this is because there's enough of you already in me for freaking fox lichen to work. And yeah, I could fight, but in the spirit of honesty, my friends don't have a plan for getting you out of me. I have a few ideas but no guarantee that any of them would work. So when you say stay, you mean -- what, exactly?"</p>
<p>"I want you to invite me," the fox says. "Knowingly, with full consent. A merging, say. You would retain what makes you your own, as would I, but we would share your body, share control, share -- everything. We would be close. We would be together. Neither of us would ever be alone again."</p>
<p>Decades in the nemeton, betrayed and trapped -- it's a little like what happened to Peter but magnified by time, and Stiles never blamed Peter for falling into feral madness. He understood Peter, even sympathised with him. If someone had done to his father what Kate did to the Hales --. </p>
<p>"You're talking about <i>kitsune-tsuki</i>," Stiles says. "Fox madness. Right?"</p>
<p>"Think of it less as madness and more of -- change." The fox holds out one hand, tilts it back and forth. Threads from the bandages sway in the air with the movement. "One man's schizophrenia is another man's shattering of boundaries." </p>
<p>Stiles snorts, says, "And what's more chaotic than a shattering of boundaries." </p>
<p>"See?" the fox says. "You understand, Stiles, because we're not that dissimilar. At heart, we're all too much alike."</p>
<p>"Say we kill Noshiko," Stiles says, dropping the stone in his hand back into the bowl, ignoring the game. "Say we get out of here and we kill Noshiko like she deserves. What then? Beacon Hills is a fucked-up place but I doubt it'd be enough to keep you satisfied on a day-to-day basis. I'm sixteen and I look it -- younger, even; I have no marketable skills or ways to keep us alive, and you've been stuck in a tree since the forties. What will we do?"</p>
<p>The nogitsune leans forward, asks, "Is there anything you’d be truly unwilling to do?"</p>
<p>Stiles narrows his eyes. "Hurt my dad," he says. "Kill my friends. Other than that? My moral compass broke the first time my mother tried to murder me and pretty much shattered the first time my dad told me her dying was my fault. You’ve seen what I did just to get some sleep and you apparently dug deep enough inside me to know how fucked up I am. What do <i>you</i> think?"</p>
<p>"I think you have a wide array of masks to choose from," the nogitsune says. "You’re an expert at showing people what they want to see and you’re good enough to fool a 'wolf pack – a young pack, stupid and more heart than sense, but shifters nonetheless. I think that when you enter a new environment or meet a new person, you assess the situation, learn the politics, figure out the fault-lines in each situation and each personality to understand the best ways to crack them open and make them <i>bleed</i>." </p>
<p>"Some would say that makes me a sociopath," Stiles points out. </p>
<p>The nogitsune scoffs. "It’s hypervigilance. It’s smart." </p>
<p>Stiles gives the nogitsune a half-hearted smile, adds, "It’s safe," because that’s how he’s always justified it, isn’t it -- safer to blend in and hide than stand out, safer to know where he stands and manipulate that standing from the sidelines, safer to be aware than to go through life half-blind and trusting. "It also means," he says, pulling himself back together, aware that he just gave the nogitsune something important but just as aware that the nogitsune knows he recognises that, "that there’s not a lot I won’t do. Which you knew. So how do you see this playing out?" </p>
<p>"I've drawn her out," the nogitsune says. "Forced her to use some of her tails, show her hand with her little fireflies. We kill her, we leave. I know others that owe me favours; we'll call them in." </p>
<p>"Out of Beacon Hills and safe," Stiles says, nodding slowly as the possibilities fly through his mind, "we'll have time to figure out the rest of it. And you swear my dad will stay safe?"</p>
<p>"We won't touch him," the nogitsune promises. "We won't touch any of your erstwhile pack, either, not even the kit." </p>
<p>Stiles looks down at the Go board, studies the placement of black and white stones. The mask Stiles wears for Scott, for the pack, for his dad, tells him not to agree, that this is stupidity of the highest degree, that even <i>considering</i> agreeing is the most idiotic thing he’ll ever do. Stiles, though, the real Stiles, the one that no one knows, the one that few people have even the faintest idea exists, thinks that perhaps this is the only chance he’ll ever have to find someone who understands what it’s like to be alone, to be cold and calculating and clinical, to be <i>dark</i> -- and faced with that, what’s the little matter of sharing a body? </p>
<p>He looks back up, can't help the skip of his heart when he sees a nine-tailed black fox sitting in front of him instead of the partially mummified human that the nogitsune was before. Fire flickers off of its tails, black fire that spits and sparks, that finds an echoing reflection in black eyes, in silver teeth, in the faint pink of the inside of its ears. Stiles wants to say he's seen more intriguing things, more beautiful things, but that would be a lie and he's not in the habit of lying to himself. </p>
<p>"What about the lichen?" Stiles asks. "You had to draw me into a dream to talk to me. How long will it take to wear off and what happens if people notice before we get out of town?" </p>
<p>The nogitsune chuffs at the use of the plural pronoun, eyes gleaming. "We'll keep the sign of it on our body," the fox says, "but once you accept, it won't matter anymore." </p>
<p>Stiles takes that in, says, "Nothing of the fox to trap in the body if the fox <i>is</i> the body, right?" He doesn't get an answer. He didn't expect one. "Your name," he says. "I have to call you something." </p>
<p>"<i>Kitsune-tsuki</i>," the nogitsune purrs. "Agree and I’ll give you my name."  </p>
<p>Stiles nods, once, sharp. "I agree," he says. "I’m yours and you’re mine. <i>Kitsune-tsuki</i>." </p>
<p>The nogitsune stands, walks across the Go board and kicks stones everywhere, dismissive of the game now that a resolution's been reached. It stands on its hind legs, front paws on Stiles' shoulders, and licks Stiles’ nose before biting a clean scar into Stiles' neck. Stiles can feel foxfire sink deep into his bones, spreading out from the bite, feels the hum of a deep craving start to settle inside of him, feels -- not alone. The fox curls up on Stiles' lap, tails wrapping around Stiles’ wrists, arms, waist, legs. "You’re mine," it says. "And I’m yours." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Stiles wakes up with the echo of a long-forgotten name on their lips.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Stiles follows the noise of Oliver chattering away down to the cafeteria for breakfast. They don't listen -- Oliver’s not saying anything important -- but make the right noises at the right time, apparently, since Oliver doesn’t call them on it. Oliver grabs food, a tray of powdered eggs and soggy toast, limp bacon and two Dixie cups of orange juice, and Stiles follows suit though they're not hungry. Sitting down at a table near the window, Oliver points out some of the others and Stiles catalogues them, gets distracted when the door to the cafeteria slams open. </p>
<p>"Malia Tate," Oliver says, leaning over the table and whispering to Stiles. "Apparently she was living in the preserve for, like, <i>years</i>. She doesn’t really know how to be human and her dad couldn’t deal with it so he put her in here. It hasn’t really helped." </p>
<p>Oliver’s whispering hasn’t made a difference; Malia still hears him. She turns in their direction, bares her teeth at Oliver, but stops completely when she sees Stiles. The tilt of her head is distinctly lupine and, weirdly enough, reminds Stiles of Peter Hale -- he’s made that exact same movement before, more than once. </p>
<p>Stiles lowers their chin, hiding their throat from her and displaying their lack of trust and curiosity. They show their teeth, lips curling in what Oliver might accept as a smile but which any shifter would instantly recognise as a warning snarl. Malia looks startled, nearly takes a step backward, and Stiles can feel the edges of the nogitsune’s fur brush against their insides, knows that whatever’s looking out of their eyes, it’s not human, not anymore. </p>
<p>Malia lifts her chin in silent concession and turns around, leaves. </p>
<p>"Weird," Oliver says. "Anyway, we have group with her after breakfast; you can say hi to the wolf-girl then if you want." </p>
<p>"Wolf-girl?" Stiles asks. They find it hard not to laugh at the nickname. </p>
<p>Oliver shrugs, says, "I didn’t come up with it, one of the Jesuses did. She acts more animal than human, lived in the woods, I dunno. It fits, though." </p>
<p>"Yeah," Stiles says. "I guess it does."</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Oliver keeps going around the room, tells Stiles about the staff, too, doesn’t stop talking for a second but still somehow manages to clear his tray of food and drink. He’s mid-sentence when he interrupts himself to ask, "Are you gonna eat anything?" </p>
<p>Stiles gives Oliver a smile, small and tired, as they duck their head. It irks them to play harmless in front of someone like <i>Oliver</i>, but Stiles isn’t going to fuck things up when they're just starting to get interesting. "Not hungry," they say. "You -- uh. You want any of it before we head off to group?" </p>
<p>Oliver beams, reaches over and takes the plate off of Stiles' tray. "Thanks," he says. He makes quick work of the bacon and eggs, eats the toast but leaves the crusts, and when he gets up, Stiles follows his lead. They dump their garbage in the can and stack their trays on the rack to the side of the garbage. Stiles follows Oliver out of the cafeteria and they pass Brunski, who's on his way in. </p>
<p>"Making friends?" Brunski asks. </p>
<p>Oliver quails; Stiles just grins, puts their hands in their pockets and tugs, a little, to stretch the sweatpants tight over their crotch. Brunski's eyes dip down, just for a moment, and when they lift again to meet Stiles', Brunski's grinning as well. </p>
<p>"Yes, sir," Stiles says. Something in Brunski's expression goes hot; Stiles files that for later. "Making friends and staying out of trouble." </p>
<p>"Good," Brunski says. "See that you do, Stilinski." </p>
<p>Stiles nods, stands there and watches Brunski go. </p>
<p>"Don't fuck with him," Oliver tells him. "Don't -- he's -- be careful, Stiles." </p>
<p>"Oh," Stiles says, "I always am." </p>
<p>Oliver gives Stiles a look that shows just how much he believes that but doesn't argue, instead leading Stiles through the halls without a word. He walks into the room for their group therapy first and Stiles follows, eyes scanning the room and settling on Marin fucking Morrell. Stiles keeps their gaze fixed on her even while they trail behind Oliver, sit on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, ignore Malia's glare.</p>
<p>Morrell inclines her head in Stiles' direction. They don't respond. Inside, under the blood and bone and muscle, one of the nogitsune's tails winds its way around Stiles' heart, another through his lungs. His heartbeat steadies and his breathing settles; Stiles breathes out fury and breathes in calm and keeps their mouth shut even though they want to know why and how Morrell ended up here, if Deaton called her to warn her about Stiles' -- condition, whether or not she's going to do anything to them or just watch in the name of every druid's apparent obsession with balance.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Group therapy lasts two hours and is, from what Stiles can see, pretty much pointless. They're ready to leave as soon as Morrell says that group is done but she stops them, calling out Stiles' name before they have a chance to stand up. </p>
<p>"I’d like to talk with you, Stiles," she says. "Go over your intake form, settle on a medication regimen for your stay. Do you have time before lunch?" </p>
<p>"You're the doc," Stiles tells her. They reach up, brush fingertips over their neck and the sign of Stiles' ostensible possession. Morrell’s eyes follow the movement, the way they have since Stiles sat down in the group circle, and even when their hand drops back down, her eyes stay fixed on the Lichtenberg figure for a moment longer. </p>
<p>So. She knows. Deaton's definitely warned her. </p>
<p>Morrell steps closer and Stiles stands, moves out of her reach and makes it look unconscious, giving Oliver a reassuring smile and letting their eyes graze over Malia, perched on a table near the window. Malia’s shoulders hunch in, just a fraction, but it’s enough for Stiles to see. They know Morrell does, too.</p>
<p>"This way, Stiles," Morrell says, and directs them to the door. </p>
<p>Stiles nods, gives Malia one last narrow-eyed look, and follows Morrell out of the group therapy room and to her office. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>"You cannot sleep," Morrell tells them. "Those will help you stay awake."</p>
<p>"Amphetamines," Stiles says, looking at the label. "You do remember I have ADHD, right? Amphetamines won’t help. I take them every day." </p>
<p>Morrell looks like she's visibly gathering her patience. "Take them or don’t, just stay awake. You’re vulnerable when you sleep."</p>
<p>"The nogitsune runs through the lichen faster," Stiles says. "I get it; Deaton told me the same thing. But what happens when this," and they gesture at the Lichtenberg figure, "is gone? The nogitsune takes over, right? What happens when -- if -- what happens then?"</p>
<p>Morrell’s lips purse. "I’m going to do what I’ve always done," she says. "Maintain the balance." </p>
<p>Stiles wants to laugh but desperately resists the desire. The balance. Right. "Okay then," they say. "I’ve missed our talks. Thanks for the illicit drugs." </p>
<p>They head for the door, pause when Morrell says, "Stiles." They look over their shoulder, hear her say, one more time, "Stay awake." </p>
<p>They nod, turn around, and leave. </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Stiles goes straight to Brunski. They wait, biting their bottom lip until it's red and swollen, until Brunski's finished telling one of the staff to go do something and then, when it's just the two of them, they sidle up close and lean against the wall. </p>
<p>Brunski lifts one eyebrow, asks Stiles, "What're you doing here, Stilinski? Don't you have group or something?"</p>
<p>Stiles takes the bottle of amphetamines out of their pocket and offers them on an outstretched palm. "Morrell gave them to me," they say. "Says she's worried about my ADHD or something, but I dunno, I get weird vibes from her and I figure you can put these to better use than I can. 'Sides, I prefer downers."</p>
<p>Brunski takes the bottle with one hand, pockets the pills. "You said Morrell gave you these?" he asks.</p>
<p>"Yeah," Stiles says. "But they’re not legit -- don’t have my name, anyway. They might be something other than what she said, too; I wasn’t around when she and my dad talked." Brunski gives Stiles a disbelieving look even as his eyes dip to Stiles' mouth a couple times and Stiles shrugs one shoulder, says, "Trouble with a capital ‘t,’ right? Anyway, do whatever you want with ‘em. I think I’m late for lunch."   </p>
<p>Stiles dips their eyes, then turns and walks away, does their best to ignore the weight of eyes following the sway of their hips as they leave.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Stiles doesn't eat lunch. Their stomach is wound too tightly in knots to let anything in and the food's unappetising anyway, gloopy and clumpy and beige. Instead, they push their tray over to Oliver and put their head down, close their eyes. </p>
<p>For all that Stiles was never <i>aware</i> while the nogitsune used his body, being two minds in one physical space hasn't been difficult to get used to. Their memories and feelings are already too tightly twined together to think of themselves separately; they don't need conversations to communicate when they're sharing the same mind and thinking the same thoughts. It's -- different than Stiles had expected, although they can't put their finger on why. Some lingering distrust, maybe, or something that one of his myriad masks might have felt -- whatever it was, it's gone and they're one and the nogitsune was right. </p>
<p>Neither of them will ever be alone again. </p>
<p>"Didn't you get <i>any</i> sleep last night?" Oliver asks. </p>
<p>Stiles resists the urge to snarl. Still, they make sure there's no sign of that on their face when they sit back up, give Oliver a tired shake of their head. "I'm not used to sleeping without my pillow," Stiles says, "and my dad and I forgot to pack it. It's okay; I have hopes that I'll pass out tonight." </p>
<p>Oliver gives Stiles a concerned look -- as concerned as he can look while he's shovelling food in his mouth, anyway. He takes a break to say, "There's a pay phone outside. They turn it off when they feel like it but, I mean, might be worth a try to call him and see if he'd bring it over?" </p>
<p>"Worth a try," Stiles says, shrugging one shoulder. They don't care either way, they just want Oliver to <i>shut up</i>. Maybe attaching themselves to the kid was a mistake. If they'd known he was this annoying, they would've chosen someone else -- though he has proven himself to be a useful shield and a font of information. "You done eating? We could try now." </p>
<p>"Yeah," Oliver says. "Come on, I'll show you where the phone is." </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>It's a nice day outside. The slight breeze feels good on their skin; they tilt their head up to the sun and let the heat warm their face. By the time they turn back to Oliver, they see Malia coming their way, a peculiar type of hunting focus to her movements. </p>
<p>"Uh oh," Oliver mutters. He gets out of the way -- coward, but Stiles hadn't expected anything else from him. </p>
<p>Malia takes a swing at them when she gets close enough. Stiles ducks under her fist, skip-dances to the side out of her reach, and stands up with a snarl on their lips and a rumbling growl in their throat. It's enough to have Malia pause, let her arms drop to her sides, look at them with a mirroring curl to her lips. </p>
<p>"You did this to me," she says, wrapping her arms around her chest. That makes Stiles tilt their head in curiosity; there's too much sunlight for her to be shivering and yet they think her stance has everything to do with warm comfort and not self-protection.  "You and your <i>alpha</i>."</p>
<p>"Did what?" Stiles asks, resisting the urge to snap that Scott is <i>not</i> their alpha, never has been. "Turned you human? Gave you back to your father? Gave you your <i>life</i>? That's something to be angry about?" </p>
<p>Malia lets out a growl, not enough to garner the attention of their keepers but enough to have the few fellow patients who'd been getting closer backing off. "You think I should be <i>grateful</i>? You invaded my home. You put me on the run and ruined my den and turned me back to human so that I could look at my father every day and try to figure out how I'm supposed to explain that the reason my sister and mother are dead is because I almost ate them on a full moon. And you think I don't have anything to be angry about?" </p>
<p>"You're cold, aren't you," Stiles says. "No more fur coat. That's why you're wearing three layers, isn't it." They stop, look Malia over. Coyotes are kin, in every mythology, to foxes, all of them hungry and full of trickery, cunning and sly -- but that's mythology, and what they're living through is anything but. No, here in Beacon Hills, coyotes are related to <i>wolves</i>. Stiles grins, slow and vicious, enough that Malia shifts her weight to her back foot, ready to run. "You know," they say, "there's someone who could help you. Outside of here. He could teach you how to change and how to control the change." </p>
<p>For all that they're a half-mad void kitsune, there's still enough of Stiles in them to push Malia towards Scott, to build what might be a highly beneficial relationship between them. Scott's so <i>good</i> that he could really benefit from the pragmatism of a coyote in his pack and the part of them that's pure nogitsune doesn't mind the assistance they'd be offering Scott, not when Malia might prove enough of a distraction for Stiles to make a clean getaway. </p>
<p>"Your alpha?" Malia asks. </p>
<p>"Yeah," Stiles says, "you could call him that. His name is Scott. He's a True Alpha. He'll help you. It's kind of what he does."</p>
<p>Malia snaps her teeth at them and walks away, not turning her back on Stiles until she's far enough away that there's no chance of a sneak attack taking her down from behind. </p>
<p>"Wolf-girl's got teeth on her," Oliver says, coming back to Stiles' side now that threat is over. Stiles snorts and Oliver points at the pay phone, says, "Meredith's talking. Probably means the line's been disconnected. She still hears voices, so everyone just kind of -- lets her go at it. Otherwise more people would be fighting for the phone." </p>
<p>This place is so fucked up.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm not <i>entirely</i> content with this, but *hands*.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Stiles and Oliver sit outside on the grass for a while, long enough that shadows start to grow, small and blunt things that twist in on themselves when Stiles looks at them. It's been too long since they've had access to the full sum of their gifts and it tires them out quickly; even with the use of a willingly-given body and all the talents that body possesses, they're still weak from their imprisonment in the nemeton. Stiles can't wait to get their hands on their full power, stashed away and kept safe all these years. Once they do -- well. </p><p>A smile, sly and wicked, crosses their lips for the barest trace of a second.  </p><p>It's sometime mid-afternoon, probably around 3, when Morrell comes out and starts herding people inside for afternoon sessions. Stiles hasn't been assigned to any of them but they follow Oliver inside, unwilling to spend any more time alone with Morrell than they have to. Still, she catches up to them when they're walking through the cafeteria, says, "Stiles, if you don't have anywhere else to be and you're not planning on napping, you're always welcome to join my group. It might do you some good; we're going to be talking about grief today."</p><p>Stiles opens their mouth to reply, but their gaze moves, eyes fixing on Brunski as he approaches their little group from behind Morrell. Brunski raises an eyebrow and Stiles lets their eyes dip, momentarily. Brunski looks like he's holding back a laugh as he comes to a stop next to the druid. </p><p>"Actually," Brunski says, "I'd like to borrow Stilinski. Need a little elbow grease over in the medical ward; figure it'll do him some good." </p><p>Morrell's eyes twitch like they're about to narrow but she catches herself, manages to nod gracefully. </p><p>Stiles gives Morrell a sarcastic, two-fingered salute, waves at Oliver, and turns on their heels, following Brunski out of the cafeteria. </p><p>--</p><p>"So what're we really gonna be doing?" Stiles asks, once they're away from Morrell, from Oliver, from anyone else within hearing. They slink up close to Brunski, enough so that their arm brushes his and their fingertips slide across Brunski's hip and the keys jangling there, and add, "Sir," just to see Brunski's eyes go dark and heated, pulse jumping in his throat, as he glances at them. </p><p>"Med wing <i>does</i> need cleaning," he says. "Or --," and he trails off. </p><p>Stiles laughs. "I choose 'or,'" they say. "No thought required. Where we headed?" </p><p>"Sub-basement," Brunski says, raising an eyebrow. "Second thoughts?" </p><p>They grin, a fox smile mirrored in dark eyes, in the tilt of their head. "None," they promise, purring out the word. "Suppose it wouldn't be worth asking what you have in mind?" they ask. </p><p>Brunski snorts, says, "Oh, I'm sure you have some idea." </p><p>Stiles only laughs a little. "Imagination's <i>never</i> been something I've had an issue with." </p><p>--</p><p>Brunski unlocks a door at the end of a long, deserted hallway; the only noises Stiles hears come echoing from floors above, bouncing off of plain-white walls and ceilings. The door, too, doesn't seem like it has many passers-through -- it sticks, a little, and Brunski has to yank to get it open. Stiles bites back the urge to lick their lips at the opportunity just presented to them. Getting down here has been their goal, but the two of them so isolated, alone together -- they're relatively sure that no one will actually <i>miss</i> Brunski if he were to disappear.</p><p>Morrell saw them together, though. They can take steps to neutralise that in the short-term but it would still be smarter to leave tonight if they take the time to indulge their cravings. Sneaking out shouldn't be too difficult; they're  <i>them</i>, now, and their late check-in yesterday showed that there are less people in the halls at night, all the human inmates locked in, a reduced number of staff. Judging by the fact that no one cared enough to stop their little argument with Malia this afternoon, no one pays that much attention to what happens to the patients so they might even have free rein of the halls once they get out of their room. </p><p>There's mountain ash and mistletoe somewhere in the building, too, enough to have set their back teeth to vibrating when they used their time outside earlier to search for wards. Better to get out of any 'mental health facility' with those kinds of things lacing the walls before their true nature is discovered; they don't want to have gone straight from the tree into another prison. Thankfully their little perusal didn't find anything lining the property, so the only things between them and freedom would be locks and cameras -- no trouble at all, really, between human and nogitsune. </p><p>The only reason to <i>not</i> go is that they have less than 48 hours before they're expected to leave, and it makes just a touch more sense to walk out of here under the protection of the sheriff rather than to have a head-start running away from him. </p><p>Still, Stiles had never been in the habit of restraining himself, and now they're fox as well, free and embodied after so many years stuck in a tree, power and hunger and will being leeched right out of them. The harm of giving in to their wants seems miniscule, really, especially when combined with the good sense of leaving early, on their own terms. </p><p>Finally decided, the promise of blood and death pressing at the end of their fingertips, a pleased purr rumbles in their throat, just for a second, the noise covered up by the sound of Brunski's feet landing on the cement floor of the sub-basement.  </p><p>Stiles looks around, curious, sees unfinished drywall, circular grates in the ceiling, rusted pieces of equipment, stacks of boxes, and -- of course -- one old, sagging, dusty couch. </p><p>Brunski pauses, waiting for Stiles' reaction, but when Stiles just finishes their inspection and raises their eyebrows at Brunski, the man smiles. Brunski makes his way to the couch, sits down with his arms stretched out over the back of the couch, legs spread, the smile on his lips turning expectant, cruel. </p><p>Stiles returns the smile, saunters over, one hand running through their hair, the other loose at their side, tongue darting out to lick at their lips, leave them shining. They drop to their knees between Brunski's legs, look up at him coquettishly through their eyelashes, though the innocent act is ruined by the way they're grinning, teeth gleaming in the faint light, smile wide and ravenous. </p><p>Brunski leans forward, grips Stiles' chin, tilting their head up, thumb dipping into Stiles' mouth. They have to resist the urge to <i>bite</i>, to get blood in their mouth and pain in the air, but that will come soon enough. They let Brunski move their head this way and that, dig their teeth into their bottom lip when Brunski's hand leaves their mouth and goes up, instead, to run through their hair in a vicious parody of a lover's touch. </p><p>"Your father ever see you like this?" Brunski asks. His nails catch in Stiles' scalp, drag a little. </p><p>Stiles laughs, a throaty little sound. "No," they say. "Dad's been a functioning alcoholic for the last eight years. He probably couldn't get it up if his life depended on it."</p><p>Brunski releases them, then, and leans back, spreads his legs a little more, toe of his boot nudging at Stiles' knee. "So you need a dad," he says, "as well as a daddy."</p><p>"Do I?" Stiles asks. They scoot forward a little, lean up on their knees, rest the thin bones of their wrists on Brunski's thighs.</p><p>"Maybe," Brunski says, "having a daddy would keep you out of all the trouble you seem to find yourself in."</p><p>Stiles grins, modulates the expression just so, matching the smile and the quick flick of their tongue to the coy tone of voice as they say, "One way to find out, sir."</p><p>Brunski's hands are moving to the button on his pants when a clang from the stairs draws his attention away. He shoves Stiles back, stands, and barks out, "Stay," before leaving.</p><p>Stiles waits until the noise of Brunski's shoes on the stairs disappears into silence before sitting back on their heels and making a face. "Ugh," Stiles mutters, wiping their mouth on their arm. "Disgusting. 'Maybe having a daddy would keep you out of trouble,' my <i>ass</i>." </p><p>They roll to their feet, head around the corner and stop in front of a half-panel of drywall marked with a backwards number five. An elbow to the drywall and Stiles widens the hole with their hands, practically tearing out the entire panel. The stench of decomposed flesh wafts outward and Stiles breathes through their mouth as they reach in and grip the corpse's head in their hands. </p><p>They give up the tight control over their true form, let out a deep breath that takes tension and all pretense of humanity with it. Their tails blur into something approaching corporeality, their teeth sharpen silver, and their eyes go dark. They move their head back and forth, neck cracking, and then they lean close to the corpse's mouth and open their own. </p><p>A coruscating ball of light forms in the body's chest, the light growing greater and more brilliant as it starts to rise, its passage up the esophagus shining brightly through the decaying skin and threadbare cloth of the uniform. When it gets to the mouth, the luminescence of it glows through the corpse's teeth -- and then it's in the air. Stiles breathes in and the shining star of power moves with their inhale, sliding into their mouth and down their throat. Stiles swallows a few times to help it move downwards and they hum in pleasure when it settles, burning like a miniature star in their chest, pulsing in time to the rhythm of their heartbeat. </p><p>They sit there for a moment, revelling in the feel of their <i>hoshi no tama</i> back in its rightful place, before standing up, tails and teeth fading back out of sight, eyes lightening bit by bit until they're back to Stiles' normal amber-brown. They crack their wrists, roll their shoulders, get used to the weight of their star back in them, and when they breathe out, tiny motes of sparkling sunlight dance through the air. </p><p>--</p><p>By the time Brunski gets back downstairs, Stiles is lounging across the couch, one arm thrown up over their head, one foot on the floor, the other flung over the back of the couch. Brunski gives him a look and Stiles leans backwards to look at him, showing off the stretch of their throat. Stiles grins, says, innocently, "The cement was starting to hurt my knees." </p><p>Brunski snorts. "Back on them," he says, head tilting at the floor in silent command.  </p><p>"Yes, <i>sir</i>," Stiles says, getting up, making a show of moving slow, stretching, showing off the skin above their sweats. They drop to their knees and then their hands as well, crawling over to Brunski, body undulating in a sinuous way that no pure human could ever hope to replicate, all predatory-grace and animal desire. When they get to Brunski, they rub their cheek against the man's ankle, then lean up. They mouth at Brunski's crotch, rest their hands on the waistband of the man's pants, then stretch higher, taller, pushing up the man's shirt. Brunski wraps one hand in their hair and <i>yanks</i>; they hiss, let the man pull them up even more, muscles stretching taut as they're forced to arch up and back. </p><p>"Think you're so clever, boy," Brunski murmurs. </p><p>"Not clever," Stiles replies, just as quiet, just as dark. "<i>Starving</i>." </p><p>Brunski smiles, opens his mouth to reply, but Stiles' mouth <i>shifts</i>; before the man can respond, Stiles leans in and <i>eats</i>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Stiles, stinking of bleach and vinegar, runs into Oliver as they're coming out of the med wing. Oliver wrinkles his nose at the smell but leads Stiles down to the cafeteria. The two grab dinner -- trays of grey-looking mashed potatoes and plain baked chicken and overcooked broccoli -- and Stiles follows Oliver to a table near the windows. Oliver starts giving Stiles a run-down of the afternoon group session; Stiles pushes their tray over to Oliver and slouches, not really paying attention. </p><p>They put one elbow on the table and rest their chin in that hand, curl the other hand over their chest to feel the slight pulsating glimmer of their <i>hoshi no tama</i>. Leaving it in the GI for so long was a gamble, but one that paid off; if their star ball had been imprisoned in the nemeton with them, there's no doubt that the tree would've sucked all the power out of it long ago. Having it back in a host is a risk, yes, but one that Stiles thinks is worth the potential fallout, especially if they're going to put Beacon Hills behind them with no idea of when they might be back. Once they get to a safe place, they'll have the choice to keep it or hide it --  they just have to make sure they actually get to that safe place first. </p><p>"What's the rest of the schedule for tonight?" they ask Oliver. </p><p>Oliver gulps down the food in his mouth, says, "Free time? They'll put up a movie in the common rooms -- it's never anything good and it's usually so old it's in black-and-white -- but that's not mandatory. Doors to outside get locked at seven and room curfew's eight. Room's get locked at eight-thirty, open back up at seven." He shrugs, adds, "Medicine rounds get delivered after eight. That's about it." </p><p>Last night, Oliver was restrained after he got his meds and he was asleep soon after the doors locked them in. Morrell thinks that Stiles is taking the amphetamines she gave them and resisting the urge to sleep; she may come around just to make sure they're still conscious. Brunski, too, did rounds last night, probably close to eleven, though Stiles isn't sure if that was part of his duties or just something Brunski did to terrorise the patients here. </p><p>Either way, it's going to be late when it's safe for them to leave, and no matter how much they want to slit Oliver's throat so he stops talking, that <i>would</i> give the game away. Instead, Stiles stands up, says, "I'm gonna go see what the movie for tonight is," and leaves Oliver scrambling behind them. </p><p>They barely get down the hallway before they're pausing, cocking their head to the side as they inhale. Coyote, cautious and quiet, following them. Stiles turns around, lifts an eyebrow in question. Malia lifts her head, showing off the pale vulnerability of her throat. </p><p>Stiles smirks. Like calls to like and she's too young to know any better. Well, then. </p><p>"Malia," they say. "What's up?"</p><p>"Not here," she says.  </p><p>--</p><p>Stiles follows Malia to the men's bathroom on the third floor. Malia strips without care so Stiles does the same, the pair leaving their clothes in the locker room before going into the showers and turning the water on, maxing out the temperature. </p><p>"The water's warmer in here than in the girls' bathroom," Malia tells him, standing under the spray. Her skin's turning red, healing back to normal, going back to red, over and over again. "But boys act so weird when they see me in their showers." </p><p>"You're prettier than most and you're shameless about showing your skin," Stiles says. "Generally humans get self-conscious when they're naked. Anyone would get weird, faced with your carelessness."</p><p>Malia turns around. "You're not getting weird," she tells them. "You don't smell the slightest bit like sex."</p><p>Stiles laughs. She's going to be <i>so good</i> for Scott. "Sex isn't something I'm interested in." </p><p>"Right now," Malia asks, "or ever?" She steps closer, rests one of her palms on Stiles' chest, and her eyes flash blue. </p><p>Stiles meets her eyes with their own and bites back a smile. Yet another blue-eyed shifter for Scott -- his erstwhile pack's made up of them and yet he glows so brightly with sanctimonious morality that it must <i>hurt</i>, on some level, that no one else has gold eyes. Instead, they give Malia a cold, unimpressed look, and reach up, circle her wrist with their fingers and grip tight enough to hear her bones crack. </p><p>"Don't play with us, <i>child</i>," they tell her. It's a calculated risk, acting like themself in front of her, knowing what she'll tell everyone else once she gets out of here, but it might give their friends and family a measure of cold comfort to know that Stiles wasn't disappeared by Eichen or chose to run away out of some sort of misguided nobility. Better for them to know they're nogitsune, and old, and <i>smart</i>, to mourn a boy they thought they knew but never did, and to leave them alone because they'll never be clever enough to trick the trickster into giving up. </p><p>Better for Noshiko to <i>know</i> that they're coming after her. They're willing to wait, to grow, to let the chaos of Noshiko's confusion at their timing feed them even while they sow discord behind the scenes: Malia into Scott's pack, Kira's distrust of her mother, Noshiko's of her righteous <i>certainty</i> that she knows them better than they know themself.</p><p>"What are you?" she asks. Stiles doesn't know if she's realising what she's doing, but she's looking at their chin, her head tilted to one side, not fighting their hold or refusing their dominance and power over her. It makes them feel -- fond. </p><p>"Fox," they say. "An old one. Stiles chose this, chose <i>us</i>." They use their other hand to shift her gaze, one finger lifting her chin until their eyes meet, coyote-blue to fox-black. "Tell them that when they ask. Make sure they understand that we bargained and agreed to do this of our own free will." </p><p>Malia nods, looks undecided for a moment, then her features shift, harden, and she presses her body against theirs, says, "Take me with you. When you leave, take me with -- I can't -- no one else <i>understands</i>. I can't be what they want; I don't know how to -- to --" </p><p>"To be human?" they guess. She nods, eyes flicking away for a brief moment then back to Stiles. </p><p>It's -- an interesting proposition. Still, as difficult as it's going to be travelling alone as a teenager, two teenagers would be exponentially more trouble than any company or chaos would be worth. Stiles is old, <i>ancient</i>, and well used to the guile and trickery it takes to pass amongst the humans unnoticed -- they've done it for centuries, after all. Malia is too animal to pass; she'd stick out in a dozen different ways, and has no benefits to offer in balance, nothing except companionship. </p><p>Stiles is both human and nogitsune. Neither of them will ever be alone, be <i>lonely</i>, again. And in the face of <i>kitsune-tsuki</i>, what is the companionship of a coyote shifter too stuck in her simplistic lupine world?</p><p>"We'll make a deal with you," they finally say. "Give the humans ten years to teach you. Learn what you can, study them, use them, memorise their teachings, and if you still want us to take you away in ten years, we will."</p><p>"Five years," Malia counteroffers. </p><p>Stiles tilts their head to the left, feels the slightest tug on his star ball with the weight of their answer. "Five years," they say. To be fair, they thought she'd push for one year. Five gives them time to age, to cause a little chaos, to figure out how they're going to fit into this new world that half of them has just barely woken up into. "Agreed." They bend down, then, and fit their lips to Malia's, binding the contract between them. </p><p>When they lean back, out of Malia's reach, they can't help the smile at the look on her face, her blown-wide pupils, the way she's lifting one hand to press against her breastbone. "I can <i>feel</i> you," she says, soft, stunned. </p><p>--</p><p>Stiles dries off and dresses, feels the weight of Malia's gaze on them the entire time. They leave the bathroom and she whispers, "Five years," before disappearing behind the closing bathroom door. Stiles finally stops fighting back the smile and lets it cross their mouth as they go in the other direction. </p><p>They head back to their room, have a few minutes of silence before Oliver comes clattering in; Stiles' good mood shatters when Oliver gasps over-dramatically and asks where they went, because by the time Oliver got to the hallway, he didn't see anyone, and he went to the movie room and didn't see Stiles, and was Stiles with anyone, and does he think he'll be getting medication to help him sleep, and on and on and on. </p><p>It's a good thing they decided to leave tonight. Otherwise Oliver's entrails would be strung up across the ceiling by now. </p><p>"I have a headache," Stiles says, bluntly, "so could you shut up for one fucking minute?" </p><p>Olilver blinks but he just shrugs and says, happily, "Sure thing. Maybe they could give you something for that when they come by with our meds." </p><p>--</p><p>An orderly comes around with the medication and restrains Oliver to the bed. Morrell swings by as well and, with a clever little sleight of hand, takes the pills that Stiles had palmed instead of swallowing. Her eyes catch on the Lichtenberg figure and she looks puzzled, a little, in the slight shift of her head and the miniscule raising of her eyebrows. Stiles doesn't think they're supposed to notice that so they don't say anything, choosing instead to give her a look of confusion when she lingers.</p><p>Her eyes flick to Oliver, already stoned and more than halfway to sleep, and she steps closer to Stiles, murmurs, "You've done well staying awake. Keep going. The longer you stay awake, the longer the lichen works, the more time you give your friends to find a solution." </p><p>Druids. Useless creatures -- powerful, at times, but useless. </p><p>Stiles nods, makes a show of getting comfortable on the bed, sitting with their back against the wall rather than lying down. Morrell nods at that, gives Stiles the faintest impression of a smile, and leaves. The door locks behind her, Oliver starts to snore, and Stiles leans their head back and goes through their escape plan one more time. </p><p>--</p><p>Five or so hours later, with fox tails curled up inside them, the press of foxfire warming their bones, the gleaming weight of their star ball in their chest, Stiles looks back once, then slinks out of Eichen House.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>Six Years Later</i>
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<p>No one else is home, so when she hears the knock on the door, Noshiko goes to answer it. She's thinking about her grocery list, that she's put off balancing the checkbook, that she needs to run by the post office to get stamps, so it takes her a moment to react when she opens the door and lays eyes on Stiles Stilinski. </p>
<p>"Hello, Noshiko," he says. "Miss us?" His eyes flash black, his teeth turn pointed and silver, a trail of sparks flying off of nine tails echoes behind him -- and then it looks human again, looks young and handsome and like no one that would get more than a second, appreciative look. </p>
<p>"Nogitsune," she says. Her grip on the door tightens even as she fights the urge to step back and slam the door right in the nogitsune's smug, pointed little face. "How did you find me?" </p>
<p>The nogitsune taps its fingers on its chest, illuminating -- just for a second -- the blinding light of its <i>hoshi no tama</i>. "It doesn't matter how much you run or how far you go," and it clicks its tongue in disapproval. "You know better than that, Oath-Breaker." </p>
<p>Her heart skips a beat. Oath-Breaker. </p>
<p><i>No</i>. </p>
<p>"Lost your tails," the nogitsune taunts. "Lost your power. No better than a kit now, aren't you, Noshiko?" The grin drops from its face as it bares its teeth at her, eyes going black -- or, not black, something darker, something like the absence of light, of hope, a black hole void of nothingness. "And yet you still think you're better than us. Still sunning your fur in the light of Inari, still filled with righteousness, still <i>holy</i>." The nogitsune smirks, a wild and <i>evil</i> thing, as it leans forward, gets in her face. She smells blood on its breath. For the first time in a very long time, all she feels is fear. "And yet," it says, softly, "We are closer to your thrice-cursed goddess than you have been in a century. At least <i>we</i> have not forsaken the very thing we emerged from. At least <i>we</i> have never pretended to exalt our nature while spitting on it at every turn." </p>
<p>"I -- I'm not -- I haven't --," is all she gets out, before the nogitsune starts laughing. </p>
<p>"Call yourself light," it says. "Call yourself <i>celestial</i>. No," it says, and the laugh stops, the eyes flash back to normal, the vulpine aspect hidden back behind the human in a merge that looks so natural that it <i>must</i> have killed the boy and taken his body for itself. "It's only a matter of time before Inari turns to you and sees what you've done. Only a matter of time before you're branded Oath-Breaker for all to see. That is," it adds, "if she doesn't just kill you." </p>
<p>The nogitsune steps back, turns to walk away, and Noshiko says, "You never came after me in Beacon Hills and now you -- you're just <i>leaving</i>?" </p>
<p>"We wanted to see what you'd do," the nogitsune says, "and we had better things to do back then. We could still feel you, still kept an eye on you. We were disappointed that you ran instead of standing your ground, but," and it shrugs. "Keep running if you'd like. Hide if you can. But knowing that your own goddess will tear you apart is enough for us." It gestures at its chest, says, 'We're connected enough that we'll know when it happens. Until then? Be afraid. Be angry. Try to bargain your way out of your own mess. We'll feed off all of it, off of <i>you</i>. Although, if you wanted to be <i>honourable</i>," it spits, "then you know what to do. Inari might forgive you eventually."</p>
<p>It leaves, then, gets into the passenger seat of a car, someone at the wheel that Noshiko can't make out, and waves at her as they drive away. Noshiko puts one hand over her chest, feels the withering light of her star ball and the dark, endless, <i>insatiable</i> pull of her unfulfilled bargain with the nogitsune. </p>
<p>Alone, stunned, and sinking into something approaching hopelessness, Noshiko feels tears fill her eyes as the implacable weight of Inari's gaze starts to turn in her direction.</p>
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